Vibrations of the Vessel
by Sherlock221
Summary: John can't tell if his blurred vision is from the lights shining into them, the alcohol burning through his veins, or the rage coursing through him. He glares at everything he passes, not really seeing anything. He's had enough.
1. Bury Me

**Prologue**

The night passes by in a blur.

Crisp. Cool. Dark.

 _Traffic. People. Noise._

John wades through the masses of people outside the pub, the cut on his cheek burning.

 _Hateful,_ Sherlock says in his head.

John can't tell if his blurred vision is from the lights shining into them, the alcohol burning through his veins, or the rage coursing through him. He glares at everything he passes, not really seeing anything.

He's had enough.

"Sorry about your friend." The blonde girl had said at the bar. She seemed nice enough, but if one more fucking person said they were goddamn sorry- John had clenched his fist into a tight ball in his lap. Then some nosy drunk had whipped his head around and joined in. "Who was your friend?"

The girl winces and simply replies, "He was best friends with Sherlock Holmes."

"The fake detective?"

The bartender threw John out before he could get a third punch in on the arsehole's face.

He was only half aware of where his feet are carrying him and the next thing he knew he was waving down a cab with a heavy arm, practically growling his destination to the cabbie who glared at him in response before begrudgingly turning his eyes to the road.

And now his feet are on soft grass, moving him quickly past gravestone after gravestone until he arrives at the one he loathes with every fiber of his being.

Where the hell did he even get a shovel? God only knows, but he starts digging anyway.

Time passes in a blur and before he knows it he's reached the bottom, shovel finally hitting something other than soft dirt. He reaches down, gripping the edges of the coffin-

"John."

That voice. That goddamn hateful voice behind him. Uncaring and calm. _Mycroft._

"Dr. Watson. Don't." He sounds breathless in a way that John has never heard before. A surge of guilt runs through him as he stares at the lid of the coffin.

"Leave me alone," John growls, reaching down. As soon as he does a hand on his shoulder rips him back and he lets out an anguished cry as he turns shoves Mycroft back.

"Get the hell away from me!"

"What exactly is the point of this?" Mycroft says as he reaches out to John once more. Without a second thought, John's fist connects with his nose and sends him to the ground.

John stares as Mycroft's hand turns red against his pale face. His chest is heaving, eyes burning. "Get away from me," he whispers viciously.

Then he's reaching down once more, grasping the heavy lid and lifting with all the strength he has left.

Nothing. Empty.

And John is suddenly falling, falling, _falling_.

He hits soft ground and no wonder it's soft because there's nothing fucking in it.


	2. Two Years

Two years of mourning. Two years of contemplating whether it was even worth it to keep living. Two years of-

"Two years," John screams, at least he tries to. He's on his knees in front of Mycroft, not even sure how he got there, but he can see in the bleak darkness that a bruise is forming on Mycroft's cheek and his knuckles burn where they rest against his chest."Two-" He can feel the veins popping out of his forehead with the effort of trying to put the rage he feels into words, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper. He winces. Weak.

"John-"

"Where is he?" John growls, gripping hard at the grass beneath him in an attempt to stop himself from attacking Mycroft again.

"There were complications. He-" Mycroft sighs, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it firmly to his nose, eyes downcast. "He was retrieved only a week ago."

"Retrieved," John repeats because apparently, he can only speak in one or two-word sentences right now.

"Yes."

John studies Mycroft's face. He can see a brief pass of some emotion pass his face and it all he needs to know. "He's hurt."

"John-"

"Take me to him."

"You will be no good to him in this state. Tomorrow morning I will have a car collect you."

John rips both hands through his hair, gripping the edges and pulling. "I've just found out that I have been _fucking_ lied to for two _fucking_ years-"

"Tomorrow," Mycroft says firmly, carefully getting to his feet before striding away.

John wants to yell or scream at him, but his lungs are burning and he can't find the air, let alone strength, to do anything, but collapse.

He lays next to the empty grave until the sun comes up.


	3. Change of Plans

John wakes up on a soft bed. His bed, he realizes, with absolutely no idea how he got there.

Last night was a dream. It must have been. Running a tired hand over his face, John jolts back and stares at it. Blood. Mycroft's blood.

He barely has enough time to reach the bathroom before falling to his knees and getting sick.

It feels impossible to tell if the way he feels is from the excessive drinking or the events of last night.

Wiping a hand across his mouth, John hears a ping from his phone on the bedroom. John debates for a moment whether to crawl there, before deciding against it and raises himself on shaky legs.

 **Car's outside. MH**

Throwing on some jeans and a jumper after quickly brushing his stale mouth, John grabs his essentials before rushing down the stairs and out the door.

A nameless driver has the car door open for him and John manages a nod before slipping inside. It's empty. He'd half expected Mycroft to be sitting across from him with a disgusted look on his face. He'd almost prefer it to the empty car that matches how he feels on the inside.

The black car is not entirely empty though. A file sits on the neatly on the black leather seat next to him.

He knows exactly what this is and he glares at the offending thing waiting to consume him with its contents.

He doesn't want to know. Whatever that file has to say will not prepare him to...to see _him_ again. _Christ, I can't even think his name. Get it together, Watson._

Grimacing, John picks up the file immediately creasing and bending the edges with the force of his grip.

Even the thought of opening it makes his stomach twists itself into a knot.

Is he angry with... _him?_ Hell yes.

Relieved?

If he is, it certainly hasn't settled in yet.

All he had dreamed of for the past two years, wished for, was for Sherlock not to be dead or to join him and end this cycle of mourning. He'd been ripped to shreds. Devoid of emotion. And now...now he knows ' _he'_ is alive and still he feels empty.

As empty as Sherlock's grave.

* * *

The drive passes in a blur and by the time they arrive John is berating himself for not paying enough attention to how long it took to get here or the route that was taken.

It's a small building. White concrete, one large black door and no windows on the front.

After the driver gives the security guard at the door some apparent secret code, John is let inside. A woman sits behind a glass pane. As he enters, she glances up and smiles at him.

"Dr. Watson," she greets, smile growing wider by the second as if it is not weird at all that she knows his name just by seeing his face.

"Uh...Yeah," John starts managing a small smile but by the slight frown that passes across her face, it must have been more of a grimace. "I'm here to see-," he clears his throat and tries again. "I'm here to-"

"I know," she replies and this time her smile is apologetic. "Just go right through this door and use this card," she instructs handing him a blank card with a strip across the back, "to open the last door on the left."

Nodding at her, John slowly does as instructed, gripping the door handle and stepping through. The hallway is long, with three fairly large rooms on each side. Six slightly tinted windows allowing someone to see inside adorn each one. The large black doors are numbered and a card swiper sits beside each one. Before John can even make it to the end of the hallway, Mycroft steps out of what seems to be an office at the end of the hall to intercept.

"Dr. Watson. There's been a change of plans."

Mycroft looks stressed. The lines across his forehead seem to have made themselves permanent today. His eyes are red and a light sheen of sweat coats his brow.

"What the hell does that mean?" John growls, glaring and trying to decide whether to slip past him. Mycroft notices and places himself in the middle of the hallway, straightening his shoulders.

"Exactly as I said, Dr. Watson. We will have to reschedule this little reunion," Mycroft replies, glaring right back at him.

John scoffs at him and before he's even aware of what he is doing, he has Mycroft pinned against one of the glass windows.

"Is this going to become a habit of yours?"

They stare at one another until John releases him and Mycroft seems to come to some decision, nodding at the door down the hall.

His eyes immediately look to the window, his shaking hand gripping the keycard hard enough to dig into his skin.

And all the emotions that he couldn't feel before crash over him.

The weight of it almost drops John to his knees. His legs are shaking, in fact, his entire body seems to be shaking.

Sherlock looks...christ, he looks the same and so different at the same time. The first thing John notices is the fading bruises marring the pale skin of his face, along with a cut on his cheek that has been stitched.

He looks...small. Frail. Fragile. He has his back pressed hard into the far corner of the room. His eyes are distant, staring at seemingly only something he can see. There is a man kneeling in front of Sherlock and it takes John longer than he'd like to admit to recognize who it is.

Greg.

Familiar anger simmers through him for a moment before his attention is back on Sherlock, body aching to run to him. It takes a few tries to slide the keycard into the slot before he's gripping the handle and slowly pushing the door open.

He steps forward on shaking legs before kneeling next to Greg, who only glances at him before turning back to whisper to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks terrified. His bottom lip quivering. Instinctively, John reaches out.

"Don't," Greg says, gently grasping John's wrist and pulling it back. "Don't touch his face...he freaks out a bit."

John stares, watching the exhaustion and emotion flint through Greg's eyes. How long has been here taking care of Sherlock? Why him? Why not John?

"Just let-let me try." He hopes that Greg can see the desperation in his eyes. He needs to try.

Greg nods.

Slowly, as if reaching out to a terrified animal, John lifts his hand once more, placing it gently on Sherlock's left cheek.

Sherlock freezes. His shivering body, trembling mouth. Everything stops and the silence is deafening as John waits for something awful to happen.

Sherlock leans into the touch, nuzzling his cheek in John's hand before turning his nose into the palm and sniffing. He jerks back, a disgusted look crossing his face.

"You smell like John today," he whispers, glazed eyes staring through John. "It must be a trick. It has to be. Clever...clever bastards, smelling like John."

Greg glances worriedly at John as Sherlock's rambling picks up speed. "John isn't here. Of course, he isn't. Why would he be? Stupid, stupid. John. H-he would protect me. Stupid." As he speaks, Sherlock rams the palm of his hand against the side of his head.

John scrambles to grasp his wrist. "Sherlock, no."

Sherlock freezes again, eyes shining. "Why do you sound like him?"

John lets out a shaky breath, placing Sherlock's hand to his own cheek. "I-because I am. It's me, Sherlock. It's John."

Sherlock's hand flinches, digging his nails into John's skin. "Cruel. You've never been so cruel, Raz."


End file.
